s t o r y
 

There was once a moth the width of a kingdom.
When its wings combed its belly they could hear it

rasping against the clouds, its wicker heart beating
like rain into drought. They tried so hard to love it, 
stretched their fingers

into the stained air of its flight, voices entering the ache of their dreams

when it reappeared above the city, snares clattering panic,

hoards skidding on confetti from its wings.

There is a music of the day that sounds like the night.

Down by the river, where arthritic willows bend their toes

into the ripples. The crackle of kindling. Every shade an eclipse.